


bang bang, that awful sound

by dinglehoppersaplenty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Involving Major Character, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinglehoppersaplenty/pseuds/dinglehoppersaplenty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is not afraid of guns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bang bang, that awful sound

**Author's Note:**

> i don’t know where this came from. i’m sorry?
> 
> vaguely inspired by [[x](http://dinglehoppersaplenty.tumblr.com/post/65012130065/deputystilinski-stiles-reactions-to-the)], also vague spoilers for season 3B

Stiles is not afraid of guns.

His father has always had one, strapped to his hip, safety locked; in the gun chest, coded with Stiles’ grandfather’s birthday; in the trick bottom of the nightstand on his dad’s side of the bed; in his father’s hands, held with familiarity and ease, steady and straight. He’d been around the other deputies around the department more times than he can count, guns always strapped right next to their badges. Cases of them at the Argent house, bigger and an even more cruel purpose than any he’d been around before.

When Stiles turned thirteen, his father taught him how to shoot a handgun. They went out into the Preserve with a bag of empty beer bottles; his dad shattered every one, while Stiles only nicked the tip of his very last one, his shoulder aching with the recoil. He showed Stiles how to clean and care for a handgun, and Stiles practiced and practiced and practiced until his own hands moved with the same ease as his father’s. He bought Stiles an airsoft bb gun, with almost the same weight, almost the same kick as a real gun, but not really the same at all. Even so, by the end of the summer, Stiles could shatter every single bottle he aimed at.

Stiles is not afraid of guns.

He respects them. His father’s first lesson, before he ever even thought to pack Stiles into the Jeep with the large white trash bag that clinked every time they went over a bump in the road, was that Daddy’s gun was Not a Toy. Stiles had learned early the concept of Not a Toy: Mommy’s phone, Daddy’s keys, Mommy’s pretty case of glass figurines. But Stiles had never even touched Daddy’s gun when it was explained to him not to be played with.

His dad had come into his room, late, long after his mom had put him to bed with kisses and three different bedtime stories. Stiles had been dreaming about riding a dinosaur with Scott when he suddenly felt weird, and he opened his eyes to find his dad, still in his uniform, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head tucked under the top bunk. (Stiles had stopped using the top when he fell off in his sleep a year ago and broke his arm.)

He had just been looking at Stiles, running a hand down Stiles’ shoulder, and when Stiles blinked, let out a slurred “Daddy?”, his dad’s face had crumpled, while he reached up to stroke at Stiles’ hair.

"Daddy?" he asked again, sitting up, wondering what could make his  _dad_  cry, and Stiles’ dad had gathered him up in his arms, hugged him so tight Stiles thought he was gonna break.

When he finally let Stiles go, he told Stiles to hold both his hands out, because he was going to put something very important in them. Stiles, still half-asleep and very confused, did as he said.

Then his dad had reached down to his hip, took his gun out of the holster, and set it in Stiles’ hands.

Stiles had been surprised by how heavy it was. He had stared at it while his father talked about how guns were not only Not a Toy, but they were Very Dangerous. Stiles needed to realize that right now, he held the power of  _Life and Death_  in his hands, and being the one to make that decision was a Very Serious Thing, never to be taken lightly.

Once he was sure Stiles understood, he had taken the gun back, kissed Stiles on the forehead, and tucked him back in.

Stiles had stayed up, staring at the window as the sky went from black, to grey, to purplish-pink.

When he went to school the following Monday, Jackson had been telling everyone about how he heard on the news his parents had had on that some little boy had been shot accidentally by his brother and  _died_.

Stiles is not afraid of guns.

But even so, his hand trembles as he holds the gun now. He’s braced his arms against the spread of his open thighs, the spare handgun that he’d snuck out of his father’s locker dangling between them. It was heavier than his bb gun, a more solid weight. His hands had loaded it on autopilot, setting it down perfectly parallel to the edge of his desk for a moment, before picking it up again and thumbing the safety off.

Then he’d sat on the edge of his bed, finger resting on the trigger guard, because “you don’t put your finger on the trigger until you know you’re going to shoot.”

Stiles is not afraid of guns.

He can’t sleep, because when he does, he has nightmares. Sometimes they’re just flashes, blood and screaming and crying; sometimes full scenes, where he has to watch his father die, watch Scott die, watch Lydia and Allison and Isaac and sometimes even Derek die, over and over again, while he stands there, helpless. He always wakes up on the verge of a panic attack, barely able to breathe; he’s used Scott emergency inhaler, outdated but still stashed in Stiles’ backpack, more than once.

Sometimes he has nightmares while he’s awake, which make him feel even more helpless. He doesn’t know what to  _do_  anymore; he just wants it to be  _over_. This darkness is too much, too overwhelming for Stiles’ heart; his heart was already so dark to begin with.

He blames the tremble in his finger on his lack of sleep and surplus of caffeine intake as he moves it to the trigger, but he’s lying.

Stiles is not afraid of guns.


End file.
